[Patrick Llewelyn] It’s not until the afternoon hours that the Fianna finally makes his way back to the Brotherhood of Thieves.

He has not set foot in the establishment since Howard died; since he became a card carrying member of the Sept of Maelstrom. When he walks in, quietly, coming through the kitchen rather than the front most entrance; the two owners are discussing an order of stock at one window. Jenny and Reuben Coltrane turned jointly at the sight of the [showered, but not shaved] Galliard they knew had lost a pack-mate.

The female squeezed his hand as she went past, Patrick managed a tight smile. Reuben thumped a meaty palm on a shoulder, clasping it for a beat and meeting the blue eyes of the Garou long enough to nod. Then; it was done and he moved on, through the swinging door and into the restaurant proper. It was still the Cliath’s moon outside, and his Rage swarmed the air around him as he climbed the stairs to the common area.

In his hand was an object of some sort, clasped tight.

When he raps his knuckles on Bridget’s door; they are no longer bruised, wearing the signs of some manner of physical abuse. He does not reek of alcohol, but instead of shampoo, faintly of cigarettes. “S’Patrick,” he says through the door, as if his Rage didn’t announce what, if not who, he was.

[Bridget Geroux] “A false sincerity, a liar and a thief, my pulse and memory, a comfort within grief.”

The Brotherhood seems relatively hollow tonight. Downstairs, patrons are just beginning to pile in for the dinner rush, followed by the bar rush. Upstairs is not much different. The light in the common room is off, but the hallway is dimly lit by two lights in other rooms. A fluorescent glow emerges from the gap beneath the bathroom door. A softer, incandescent glow beckons from the barely-cracked door of Room 8.

Within that room at the end of the hall, no one is present. Amidst the retail carnage of two young independent women are some identifying markers between what might belong to Bridget and what might belong to Cordelia, although the mess is strewn about so that it’s difficult to say, really. An acoustic guitar rests on one bed among a bunch of sheet music, a familiar overstuffed canvas bag, and other accoutrements belonging to the Canadian bumpkin.

The dim scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and a fresher scent of blood taint the air so perfumed by the ambient smell of two different women of strong Warrior breeding. The only ambient noises are from beneath the dorm-style loft area and quiet, mouthy breathing. It’s nearly imperceptible, but eventually the sound of running water would catch Patrick’s ears.

A quiet spat of hissing and whispered expletives comes from the bathroom.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She’s sitting in her room…well, Kyle’s room to be specific. But it was the room that she and Amy were crashing in and Kyle didn’t really sleep in there, so it might as well be called their room. Besides, isn’t possession 9/10ths of the law? Well, she’s in possession at the moment, so it’s her room. Nyah.

…AAAAANYWAY, she’s in her room, and the door is open. So she heads Patrick’s footsteps as they approach Bridget’s door, only two down from her own (let’s include door possession in as part of the room, so as not to get on another side-tangent) and hears his voice. She sits up, walking to the door and stepping outside to note Patrick. The Strider’s expression is not pitying, but it is sympathetic and minus its usual snark. “Hey.”

[Patrick Llewelyn] The Galliard’s blond hair was tousled, he’d clearly been doing what Sarita ventures out of her own room and discovers him mid-process of a lot. Which was running his fingers through it in what must have been agitation at not finding Bridget in her room. The object in his hand appears to be an old harmonica, and he shifts it from one hand to the other as he turns; his blue eyes finding the Strider.

He grimaces a little in memory of the last time they met; though for all she knows, it’s because she’s speaking to him, or Bridget isn’t home or — it could be any number of reasons. Maybe he’s just hungover as hell and her voice seems louder to him than normal. “Hey,” he echoes quietly, in response to her expression and her greeting. He’s becoming accustomed to seeing that look on their faces.

He wants to resent it; their caring; their anguish about Howard.

But he cannot seem to muster it, so he simply accepts it and moves on. “Seen Bridget?” He gestures at her door and then turns his head slightly at the running water, the muttered cursing. There’s a slight upturn to the corner of his lip, and he moves across the hall, and tries the door to the communal showers.

“You in here?” He doesn’t say who he’s asking after; but he can smell her.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Not since she was here yesterday.” She frowns. If Bridget is potentially missing, the Strider is concerned. And while Patrick didn’t exactly say that, Sarita is clearly not taking any chances. There’s a lot of people fucked up around here, and she doesn’t think they know her well enough to let her help in any substantive way. So she can at least keep an eye on them, and keep things from getting worse.

She shuts the door to her room and starts to move after Patrick.

[Bridget Geroux] So, apparently the loft was not as hollow as it appeared at first sight. Patrick finds Room 8 unoccupied currently, but a girl just doesn’t leave without her purse… bag… whatever. Patrick is looking for Bridget, but finds a concerned, well-meaning Strider instead. The concern, the grief, the mixed emotions might not have been what Howard wanted, but what Howard may or may not have wanted doesn’t nullify the facts of life.

The facts of life being that even monsters sometimes care for their fellow monsters, or are disheartened by the expendability of other monsters like themselves. Kinfolk are simply too varied to really gauge their reactions. Kinfolk tend to be a harder lot than the rest of humanity, more accustomed to loss.

Sometimes, part of that means going on a bender regardless of the consequences. Even if that means stalking the grimy streets of Chicago like a lost sheep tempting Fate to throw them a curveball. Shit happens. Sometimes that shit involves getting into scraps with the wonderful samaritans of Chicago.

When the combined Rage of the two Garou descend upon the door to the communal showers, there is no need for a knock to announce their presence. Within, the kinswoman pauses in her attempt to clean herself up. A moment before they found her out, a fresh nosebleed began gushing into the sink. Bridget was trying to see if she had a broken nose, prodded things the wrong way, and the fresh wound reopened readily.

“Gimme a sec,” a nasal groan replies over the roar of running water.

When she finally opens the door, Bridget looks the worse for wear. She looks like she’s had a shower also, but under her eyes there is a fresh bruise from the knock to the nose. Her face has the pallor of those recovering from a night under the mixed blessing of Dionysus.

Eyes go to Patrick first, since his footballer build would take up most of the doorway, then to Sarita. She’s holding a wad of toilet paper to her face, using it to pinch her bleeding olfactory appendage with.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She pauses when she hears Bridget’s voice, relaxing a bit since she knows that Bridget isn’t actually…you know. Missing and presumed trying to snorkel in a ditch. Without the snorkel. She takes a lean against the wall, letting Patrick be most prevalent. That gives Little Miss Laughter a chance to watch him, study his features. She’s a pretty good judge of character, or she likes to think so.

She doesn’t study long though, before she looks down at her feet. The woman is normally not worried about irritating people with her long, curious stare. Now…probably not the best time, though. She looks back up when the door opens, giving a smile that drifts away when she notices the toilet paper and scents blood.

“Hey there chica, howwwwoah…kay. What did you get into a fight with?”

[Patrick Llewelyn] The Strider comes down the hall after him, concerned about her friend. Patrick doesn’t appear quite so stressed when he calls out into the bathrooms; nor does his face melt into an expression of relief, either. It remains a passive thing, only signaling its mood in the faint furrow lines marring his brow. What Sarita sees in her study of his profile is a young man who has been forgoing shaving for the past three days; though with Patrick’s fair complexion, the bristle on his jaw is not as prominent.

It merely gives him a scruffier edge.

For a musician, hell, for a mechanic, it’s not such a strange sight. But on someone like Patrick, who had always been clean-shaven, it seems a clear indication that wherever he’s been, or whatever he’s been doing — he has not been taking great care of himself. The clothing he’s wearing is the same as what he was in when Bridget saw him last night; they’re rumpled, but smell only faintly now of the bars he’s been haunting.

When Bridget pulls open the door, the Garou’s nostrils are flaring at the scent of blood.

Sarita speaks, asking what she’d gotten into a fight with. Patrick, on the other hand merely studies her face acutely; silently. His eyes roving over her face, absorbing the fresh bruise beneath her eyes. He slips the harmonica into a pocket, and slides his arms over his chest. “Is it broken?”

Bridget looks to Sarita when she’s addressing her, not too swayed by the Strider’s Rage as much as Patrick’s. Last night the kinswoman had the bravado of the drunk, but today it’s gone. She’s wary for more reasons than just the spark of divine wrath.

It’s uncertain whether she’s checked her voicemail, or if it mattered at this point. Patrick’s concern elicits movement from the kin, a flinch, a smirk. She grants her desire for movement by moving back to the sink for a minute to make sure no bloodstains were left in the sink before she returns to the doorway, still holding the paper wad over her nose.

“Dunno. It’s fine,” she answers Patrick at last. Sarita would recognize the same deadpan expression she had yesterday when The News was broken. Her countenance is a grey stone, a far cry from the colorful, shifting thing she’s known for.

The kinswoman stands in the doorway before them, blinking as she points her gaze at the doorframe, tilts her head up a bit to let the blood drain down her throat.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Well, as long as you hit harder, at least.” She offers up a little grin. She’s not the kind that layers on sympathy after sympathy after sympathy. Sometimes, it’s too much for people, and a little respect and normalcy is what they need in the short term. Sarita would never accuse herself of normalcy, but respect she can do, and some levity can still go a long way.

“How’re you feeling other than that? Betting you had a fair amount of a hangover…”

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick, honestly, aside from smelling less like the inside of a bar, seems much as he was last night. His rage is not diminished by any means, though there is less anger prominent in his gaze, now, as it remains on the face of the Kinswoman as she crosses back to the sink, then returns to stand before him.

He is uncertain, that much is clear in the manner he uncrosses his arms, sets them at his side and then flicks a quick look at the Strider. Back to the Kinswoman. “Listen, I need to talk to you for a minute.” A beat; he jerks his head in the direction of her room and moves out of the road.

Sarita gets a brief nod, but it’s about all the Galliard seems to be capable of managing.

He pushes the singer’s door open, and moves into the space, his hands delving into the pockets of his jacket as he comes to a stop at the cluttered desk that separated the beds. He leans against it, focusing on some speck on the carpeted floor while he waits for Bridget to follow. For all he knew, he’d be waiting an hour or more.

[Bridget Geroux] “Yeah, shoulda punched him in the dick,” Bridget returns the gesture with one of her own in an attempt to show Sarita that the girl wasn’t going to fall the fuck apart.

Patrick needs to speak with the kinswoman. Kinfolk don’t much have a choice, or rather… the desire to rebel against these minor things should be strong enough to be worth any reprisal. Patrick shuffles off to her room, leaving Bridget and Sarita standing in the doorway. The Canadian quirks a brow at the Strider, then rolls her eyes a little bit.

A hand goes to the other woman’s arm, a small touch of reassurance. “I’m okay. Gimme a sec to see what he needs.”

His. Needs. Bridget isn’t particularly thrilled to fulfill them, but she trots along anyway, wad of slightly bloodied toilet paper still at her face. Once she trails back to the shared bedroom, she grabs the guitar by the neck and props it against her headboard, shuffles some of the junk off her bed, and takes a seat.

She checks the paper wad carefully, taking a white part to check if she’s still gushing. She isn’t, but she pinches her nostrils with it for a few moments longer anyway. A silence grows between them, and the kinfolk isn’t the one to break it first except for a slight sniffle.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She provides a warm smile to Bridget and nods. “Hon, do your thing. You know me…I’m just chillin’.” She watches the two head off, and then moves to her room. She pauses, looking over at the door to Bridget’s room as the two walk in, and then heads into her own room for the moment. She only spies on her non-friends. And her sister. Though that latter one made her wish for brain bleach.

[Patrick Llewelyn] She doesn’t break the silence.

Well, that’s alright. Patrick takes a moment after she steps inside and settles herself, sniffing and dabbing at her nose to check to see how badly she’s still bleeding before he does so much as lift his eyes off the floor. He’s frowning, but that may simply be the manner that he collects his thoughts. Tonight, with his rage as high as it is, he is overly cautious of lingering long here.

It’s simply too risky.
He still wants to lash out and hurt people too badly.

“I’m gonna be honest.” He says bluntly, without any warm up speechifying that was atypical of his auspice. “I’m too fucked up, Bridget, to be a shoulder to cry on about Howard.” He holds up a finger to ask for patience. Or understanding, or — something. “Not that you seem the crying kind, or, whatever but I can’t — ” He breaks off, turns and leans his weight on the chair back; his fingers curling around it; shoulders rounded back.

“I came here to say sorry for being a jerk last night, but now I’m here and it’s not gonna work because I am gonna be a dick again. I don’t know if I even mean to be but right now, it’s all I can manage. Telling you how it is, for me.”

He turns, straightening, and takes an object out of his pocket; turning it over in his hands. It’s the harmonica he’d been holding when he came in. He leans over, and sets it on the bed beside her. “It was Howard’s.” Gruff. “I can’t play it, and he knew you did and I guess I thought he’d have wanted someone to get use out of it, so.”

He grows silent, turns toward the door.

“That’s it. S’all I wanted.”

[Amunet Trujillo] Amy is making an effort to get up, shirt off as she slowly untapes her ribs to prepare for a shower. She glances up when Sarita looks in, but doesn’t say anything.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She smiles a little. “Hey chica, you’re awake.” She grins as she shuts the door to the room and takes a lean against the wall next to the door. “Looks like you’re healing up well. Are we at a point when I can jump up and down on the bed to jostle you?” She smirks. “Or is that too soon?”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Only if you want me to fucking murder you.” She offers a tiny smile. “You got any more of those pills?

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Of course.” She pushes off from the wall and heads to her bed, taking a seat on the floor next to it and reaching under. She’s grasping for several moments and swearing under her breath in Spanish and English both before she comes out with the bottle, which she tosses over at Amy.

“There you go. Take two of those, call me if your face turns red and you start choking or some shit.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “I need a fucking shower.” She tries to catch the bottle but misses, having to slap her hands down onto it in her lap before it falls to the floor.

[Bridget Geroux] Two brows go up when he starts talking. He toes the line of control and oblivion, and it’s obvious by his flustered words. He warns her he’s going to be a dick, he gives some sort of gesture that he cares. There’s an apology, which is more than was expected. He gives her a trinket belonging to his packmate, which he probably debated about for a while.

Patrick has something exactly right: Bridget never cries. Not that there’s been much reason until recently for anyone to witness that useless, saline rain fall from her face, but even with her recent heartache, they don’t appear. She turned to no one for her grief, no one but Mister Jack Daniels. Patrick fights his inner demons, so Bridget doesn’t stir the pot. Not that she would anyway, giving the circumstance.

The Welshman turns to leave before Bridget has had time to process the brief interlude. She takes the bloodied wad from her face finally, wraps it up carefully, and sets it on her dresser for now. Only her arm moves in this endeavor, so she stays fairly still overall.

“You’re not in the mood to talk, but I have something to say. Please just hear me out, you can lose your shit, hit me, or whatever. I don’t care anymore.”

Let’s just hope it isn’t inspired by a deathwish. A small, mouthy breath fills the strong lungs of the young woman, then exhales to relieve more than just hot air.

“I know you’re trying to not be a dick, and I appreciate it. I don’t pretend to understand your grief, your loss, what you’re going through. I couldn’t possibly know what goes on inside your head, your heart. I don’t particularly want to; I don’t really understand what’s going on with mine.

But I found out just last night because someone spilled the beans. Everyone was going to just let me sit and drink myself blind because part of me is a stupid, foolish girl and I read too much into things. I was about to go drink myself stupid because the last time Howard saw me, he ran the other direction like I was some plague.

I don’t know what I felt about him. But the reason why I got so wasted last night was because it hit me all at once that I am absolutely alone here. There is not one person here I can remotely relate to. There are, however, a few people that small parts of me can relate to small parts of them. You, Howard, Simon, Cordelia, even Sarita out there. Still? For the first time in my life I feel completely lost.”

She stops and takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales for continuing, “I don’t want to seem like I’m whining. There are worse things. All I’m saying is that you were right last night. I shouldn’t let myself be toyed with. I shouldn’t get involved. I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe finding some answers or some sort of connection or understanding… when I came here. You were right, even if you didn’t mean to be a dick like that.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Well then go take a shower, bitch.” She grins a little bit and looks her over. “What the fuck do you need my permission for?” It’s a good-natured insult, like their banter usually is, instead of the occasional screaming matches that they have. She gestures to the door in a grandiose sweep.

[Amunet Trujillo] “I fucking hate you. Are you going to make me say it?” She pries off the lid of the bottle and dry swallows three pills.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She gives Amy a look, as if to say ‘what the fuck?’ She sighs and shakes her head, getting up off the bed and picking up some of her clothes to sort through them. “Yes, I’m going to make you say it, since I have no fucking clue what you’re babbling on about.”

[Amunet Trujillo] She struggles to get up, then gives Sarita the loose edge of the tape. “Want to hold and I’ll spin?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “That works.” She grins. “Just imagine youre a ballerina. Without all the psychosis and lesbian sex.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Maybe just a little of the psychosis.” She twists slowly, but still gets dizzy. When the bandage is off, she struggles out of her pants and grabs a towel to wrap around her. “Shall we?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Let’s.” She head back over and slips an arm around Amy’s back, letting her lean and helping her along.

[Amunet Trujillo] “We are so fucking getting high after I shower.” She moves along slowly now that her ribs are free.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “I knew it…you just got hurt so you could get into my good shit, didn’t you?”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Oh, yeah. You know me. Fucking druggie so bad I want the shit kicked out of me.” She laughs, then winces. “Fuck.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “If you say so.” She tapes Amy up carefully, making sure that it’s tight and and giving Amy proper support.

[Amunet Trujillo] “I forgot how much broken ribs fucking hurt. So what kind of shit have you got?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “I have just the regular. Lots of booze and some pretty serious weed. I will say one thing about him, my hookup doesn’t fuck around. He’s spendy, but worth it.” This is why they stay on the verge of poor; too much smoking their product. But at least they’re not in debt.

[Amunet Trujillo] “Outside, then?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Outside it is.”

[Amunet Trujillo] She struggles into some clothes and a jacket, then heads outside.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She helps Amy on out, leading her onto the van.

[Amunet Trujillo] She climbs in slowly, settling into the seat. “So what did you do today?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Oh shit. Not a huge amount.” She its down and pulls out her tin box, pulling a plastic baggie of pot and her pipe. “Went looking for Bridget after the shit that went down yestrday. And then found her here.” She rolls her eyes.

[Amunet Trujillo] “How was that?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Didn’t talk to her much. Patrick was there too, and he needed to talk to her.” She shrugs. “They have shit to straighten out or something. Long as she’s okay.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “So she was fucking him or what?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Who, Patrick?”

[Amunet Trujillo] “The dead guy.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Oh.” Her nose wrinkles as she loads the pipe. “Not…I don’t think so. There was something there, though.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Fucking men.” Her nose wrinkles and she looks out the passenger window.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Well…in all fairness, he got gacked by reanimated Spirals or some shit. It’s not like he woke up in some hooker’s bed or something.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Well, I feel bad that he died and shit, but…” She shrugs “They’re still all fuckers.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Oh, no doubt.” She grins. “That’s part of their use.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Fucker.” She scowls a little. “Are you going to light that fucking thing or what?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Bad joke.” She takes the first hit, holding it in for several beats as she hands it over.

[Amunet Trujillo] She reaches for it across her body to use her non broken side, taking a long drag and closing her eyes as she leans her head back against the head rest.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She smiles a tiny bit. “Better?”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Getting there.” She takes another drag before finally handing it back

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Good.” She kicks the minifridge open. “What do you want to drink?”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Something fucking strong”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Straight shots it is!” She grins and grabs the jager out of the fridge and hands it over. “You’re gonna be fucked up tonight.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Thank fucking god.” She grins and grabs for the bottle, gulping down a mouthful.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She chuckles. “My GOD are you going to be hungover tomorrow. But at least it’ll distract you from the rest of the pain.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Can’t we find somebody to heal this shit already?” Another gulp, and she hands the bottle over too

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “We can try. If you’d ever found a Theurge, it’d be easy.” The wryness in her voice is heavy. She pulls out the Cuervo, taking a shot.

[Amunet Trujillo] “If you ever got off your fat, lazy ass and learned the ritual it would be easy too. What’s her fuck is a Theurge, I think. The weird new girl.” She’s happy to keep the Jager, taking another drink

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Wierd new girl.” She pauses and frowns, then shakes her head. “Nope. I am not a Theurge.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Fucking slacker.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Blow me.”

[Amunet Trujillo] “I choke on small bones.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She snickers. “You learn that in the last week or two?”

[Amunet Trujillo] “Yep.” She takes another drink.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She practically chokes on a swallow of tequila. “Oh my fucking god, Amy.” She tosses her head back and out and out cackles.

[Amunet Trujillo] “Hey, you asked.” She scowls out the window again.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The laugh mellows, and fades. “It’s bothering you.” It’s not a question, more an observation.